


Schrӧdinger’s Box of Weirdness

by rubicks



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Sensory Overload, Stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25853125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubicks/pseuds/rubicks
Summary: Reid debates if he should get tested for autism.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 223





	Schrӧdinger’s Box of Weirdness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Criminal Minds fanfic, so I hope it turned out okay. As an Aspie who's been enjoying reading through the Autistic Spencer Reid tag, I wanted to try contributing something myself.

**Schrӧdinger’s Box of Weirdness**

Reid had his suspicions. When he was younger, scraping by on a grad student budget and struggling to pay for his mom’s care, he’d had to accept that suspicions were all he could afford. He didn’t have thousands of dollars to spare getting a formal test. Besides, what was the point? He was doing well in school, he didn’t need to ask for accommodations, and getting tested would leave him exposed in a way he wasn’t ready for yet. He knew he was autistic, and that was all that mattered, right? 

But Reid craved validation. Later, he’d seek it from Gideon—proof that he was fulfilling the burden his intelligence gave him. Back then, it was from his professors. It would make sense that a teenager working toward his second or third PhD would experience imposter syndrome, but nobody ever thought to ask. He had a gift! How could he possibly be suffering? So instead of sleeping, he would lie awake curled into a ball on his bed and mentally recite his papers over and over again, checking for any flaw in the experimental rationale or writing. And when his professors praised his work, he glowed. Happiness so warm only years of forced habits kept his hands still at his sides. 

And people wondered why he drank so much coffee. 

When he joined the FBI, the temptation of the validation a diagnosis would give him loomed. He wasn’t weird; he was autistic. It would be definite proof—an explanation for all his quirks and all his struggles. 

The pressing weight of flickering lights that he never realized was the source of his irritation and distress until he was somewhere dark. 

The slimy texture of sauce on his tongue, how it slid around the food and coated the roof of his mouth. How even the sight of meatloaf and gravy would make him nauseous. 

The _tap tap tap_ of rain on the window. Rain was weird for him. Anything else and he’d need headphones to have any hope of concentrating, but the steady thrum of raindrops, the falling streaks across the sky—he could watch the rain for hours and not realize it had been longer than a minute until he took a sip of the cold, stale coffee in front of him. 

Sometimes at the BAU, Reid would get so lost in his thoughts as he explained why a specific medicine worked or how long it took oranges to ripen that he would find himself standing on his toes, the pressure centering his happiness at having someone listen to him. Then he would see their eyes trail down, the flash of disapproval cross Gideon’s face, and he would abruptly lower himself. Shoulders back, arms uncurled and rigid by his side—look at him, Neurotypical Reid. 

It was at times like that that he wondered if anyone else suspected. Did they think he was autistic? Or did they think he was just weird? 

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted the test. Now, he didn’t have money as an excuse. Sure, DC was expensive, but his apartment was tiny and half falling apart. He could afford it. But what if the results came in, and they said he wasn’t autistic? What was he then? 

Sometimes, curled up beneath his covers, he wondered what he would give to feel normal. His intelligence? His passion? What was a worthy sacrifice? 

(even at his lowest points, he could never find it in him to wish away himself.) 

Once at a police station, Reid stared blankly at his whiteboard and told himself to think, think, think because a little girl depended on him to find her, but the hum of activity around him sent waves of tension through his body and the only thinking he was doing was about how he could possibly leave. Then Morgan was at his side, arm outstretched and quickly retracted. 

“Hey Pretty Boy, let’s go get some coffee. It’s going to be a long night and I need something better than the burned dregs they have here,” he said. Reid blinked, nodded. He willed his mouth to say something, anything, but Morgan had already turned around to leave and didn’t notice his silence. As they left the conference room, Reid saw the takeout cup in Emily’s hand with the name “Morgan” messily scrawled across the side. 

Back in Quantico, the bullpen was badge access only. And every time someone held their badge to the scanner, the door made two loud _click clicks_ that went _bang bang_ right through Reid’s skull as the locks disengaged. He tried to hide his flinch whenever it happened, but one time he saw Hotch looking at him with his calm, impassive gaze. 

The next day, a work crew was messing with the locks. And the day after that, the _click click_ was so quiet it was impossible to hear over the background chatter of the bullpen. Hotch never said a word about it. 

For a Secret Santa gift exchange, JJ gave Reid a desk bauble full of colored liquid that moved whenever he shook it. Reid was too self conscious to use it whenever the bullpen was full, but sometimes if it was just him or Morgan and Emily, he would shake it and watch the water swirl around. It was better than rain, somehow, because it was JJ who had thought to give it to him. 

He decided that in the end, it didn’t matter what a test said. He knew who he was better than anyone else ever could. And if his amazing, kind, smart teammates accepted him and all his quirks, it was probably time he did the same, right?


End file.
